


Kinda Wanna Be

by vamm_goda



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, Friends to Lovers, M/M, victory fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamm_goda/pseuds/vamm_goda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Matt Duchene is on an adrenaline jag, Paul Stastny is mostly an innocent bystander, and Landy and Varly are not subtle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kinda Wanna Be

First game was at home, win one for Foppa and the 21 in the rafters, and Matt didn’t miss the way that Landy deflated when Foppa came into the locker room afterwards. The way he’d shuffled and ducked his head like he’d failed him even though Peter had clasped his shoulder, and Landy’s arms wound around his waist, clinging. Matt didn’t miss the determination they all carried that this season wasn’t gonna be last season, a steady downward slide of injury and just plain failure. And he didn’t miss the way some of them were moving like it already was.

They’re fresh off last season, the one that netted them the second overall draft pick, and with it Gabriel Landeskog. Don’t get him wrong, Matt wouldn’t trade having Landy on the team for anything, but sometimes it’s a little painful to remember why, exactly, they got him in the first place. And if third overall isn’t enough to save them he’s not sure second can either, but it doesn’t matter because he’s so glad Gabriel is here.

What some people — a lot of people, actually — forget is that the Avalanche are winners. They have a history of it; it’s built in from the years they brought the Cup home, from the years where the Playoffs happened not between East and West but between Detroit and Denver. Matt grew up watching those years — and he’s not Joe any more than Gabe is Peter, or Paul is . . . the other Peter . . . but he wants to believe they have the ability to bring that energy back someday.

They just need to keep playing like they have been, like it doesn’t matter if they die out there as long as they win the game. They need to stop being pushovers and prove that being kids also means they’ve got better endurance and sharper blades on their skates.

5 for 5. It still sounds weird inside his mouth. It’s being tossed around a lot, by reporters and fans and all these people and he’s still not really sure what it means. It means they’re ahead for now, but they were ahead last year, too. They’re words that are mostly meaningless when there’s still time to crash and burn, third period collapse and all that. It’s one of the stats that’s made empty with hot air in the end, but they come with the words “Franchise First” and that’s pretty cool to know this particular incarnation will always carry that with them. They’re a good squad, they deserve it.

It’s just that the whole concept is . . . strange to him. Weird and foreign, like those French words Paul insists on using sometimes, as though he’s actually _from_ Quebec and not just born there.

The words have more of a weight to them than they would for a team that’s used to winning, to going out there and kicking ass on ice where they can barely spy their colors anywhere in the stands. That’s the excuse he tries to use when he can’t hold still, his attention span roughly the same length as a kid’s who’d been raised on SpongeBob. Matt’s dancing on his feet with excitement, jerky little movements that have Milan patting his head affectionately as he elbows past him, but Matt’s not moving from where he’s camped beside Stas’s locker, watching the older man getting changed like he’s anticipating something.

“What?” Paul manages finally, shoving his things into his bag and not bothering to look at Matt.

“We should go out,” he offers, in what he hopes is a way that sounds intriguing but mostly just sounds breathless and rushed. “We won, and we should go out.”

Paul’s eyes hit the locker room, and Matt watches as the little smile starts to creep over his face, lips pulling over the space where teeth should be.

“EJ!” he calls, drawing attention from across the room before heading over. “We should head out after this, no one’s gonna . . .”

His voice trails off, conversational tone swallowed up in the thoughtless noise of shit talking and showering, and Matt drops onto Paul’s bench for a moment before he’s back on his feet, energy burning under his skin and stretching him out, making exhausted muscles jump and shudder like electric currents. He can’t sit still and cool down in this state, so instead he moves.

“It’s my idea,” he points out, tight against Paul’s side, and Stas spares him an encouraging little shoulder pat like Yan probably gives him before going back to discussing the logistics of it.

It’s not like they’ve never gone out after a game as visitors.

It’s not like Matt _had_ the idea, or anything.

Really, he should be glad Paul and Erik are handling this – they’re better planners than he could ever hope to be. Because the problem with the town not being theirs, there’s really no easy way to get there short of pulling a Speed on their bus. That would be stupid, they like the driver.

Toronto’s a city that’s at the end of the line for this trip, this 5 for 5 they’ve managed. It’s also a good town, a hockey town, and it has John Michael in it so it’s exactly everything they need at the end of the night.

There aren’t a lot of bars in Toronto that aren’t filled with people who are pissed at them, but John Michael directs them to one where the lynch mobs will be less. Which . . . he’s probably joking; they’re in Toronto, not Montreal, but it’s not exactly a risk any of them are jonesing to take, not when they’ve done so well so far. They need to take the night to celebrate and throw their hats into the wind and dance with no consequences.

The league is small, and everyone has played with everyone else (or in Milan’s case, everyone else’s father. TJ feels the need to point that out) so once the massive player phone tree has been enabled it ends up with Paul and Matt hitching a ride with John Michael.

It’s them and a few other guys, but all Matt’s aware of is adrenaline and Paul next to him, chin tucked against his fist and watching the road as though he’s trying to memorize their route so he can reverse it on the way back. He probably is; Paul’s never unaware of things, of where they are and where they’re going. John Michael hasn’t told them where they’re going but apparently it’s someplace good, and Paul’s keeping an eye out for it.

TJ and Shane are being loud and obnoxious, throwing god knows what at each other from the front of the ride, O’Byrne is settled in next to Matt and trying to ignore them and Paul isn’t breaking the staring contest he’s having with the window, even while John Michael tries to pick up on the latest gossip from Denver. Matt has no clue what he’s asking about, a lot about gossip and the locker room, probably. Burner is filling him in with occasional help from the other guys, but mostly Matt’s too excited to do much beyond bounce around in his seat, hyper like a five year old on the way to visit Grandma for the weekend and already plugged full of sugar.

Toronto has some pretty awesome lights downtown, they’re brilliant and crispy and just.

They’re so _shiny_.

He jostles his leg against Paul a few times and the other man laughs, nudging him back with his knee, answering too soft for Matt to catch him.

Maybe his mind’s just not on his answer, and. Whatever, Stas doesn’t mind. Probably.

They finally spill into the bar nearly two hours after the game when hopefully the crowds have cleared and some of the hockey related antipathy has started to clear with them. The team is loud and rowdy and excited, and it’s perfect.

“Get down, boys!” Milan yells as they go in. Erik and Paul smile little behind him, their triumvirate of leaders waving them in with permission for celebration, for whatever they want or need.

“He’s right. It’s a weekend,” Erik offers with a little wink, two solid days without a game and TJ is in with his arms up, shouting victory to the ceiling and anyone else who’ll listen.

It’s not a bar he’s ever been in, obviously, but it’s almost exactly like a lot of ones that he’s been in back in Denver. It’s probably a hole-in-the-wall but that’s fine. The music feels resounding and beating. It’s not his thing but he _wants_ so much, wants the dark and the beat in his veins, and . . .

Shane’s in his face, shot in hand and shoved at Matt until he takes it and throws it back.

It burns. Shane didn’t spring for the best but it’s okay. It’s hot in his belly with the adrenaline.

It’s sorta novel to be able to get drinks here, even though it’s. Y’know. His home country and all that. Sometimes he feels like he’s been in Colorado for a really long time.

Home is such a variable word for a hockey player, at any rate.

Home for John Michael had been Denver for _so long_ , and now easy as smiling it’s Toronto, and he likes Jan and Shane but he just sometimes misses John Michael like a stomach ache.

It wasn’t Paul who went under the trade knife ( _This time_ , his mind keeps repeating until he wills it to shut up) and he can’t deny his relief at that.

Bodies get in his way, but he fights through them. When he elbows up to the bar, Paul and some of the old guard are already there.

Well, ‘old’ for the given value of ‘old’, at any rate. Not like they could forget that they’re the second youngest team in the league.

John Michael and O’Byrne have already claimed a portion of the bar for just themselves, heads bowed together and beers pushed almost to touching on the counter in front of them, voices too low to catch much of. Paul hands Matt a dark glass without him even needing to ask for anything.

He can buy his own drinks here, but coming from Paul it’s affection more than anything.

Paul is awesome. Paul always looks out for him. Paul is like . . .

His _favorite_.

Paul might as well be screaming Slovak into his ear for as well as he can hear him. The bass in the club has his heart pulsing in his throat so that all he can do is take the drink that’s being shoved towards him and scream “Thanks!” at the top of his lungs and hope Paul gets it.

He doesn’t need Paul to order drinks for him in Canada but it’s an old habit. Not that Paul’s old, but the habit is. He’s not really old, not on almost any team in the league apart from this particular one, except sometimes even he himself forgets that. Matt wishes he wouldn’t, because he’s not old. He’s just. Paul, only sometimes he’s more _Paul_ than other times.

The beer fizzes in his throat as he slams it back. He chokes a little bit on the bubbles, sputtering and hacking until Paul slaps his back, “Whoa there, Kid!” but he’s not a kid, he’s only five years younger than Paul and that’s not so much in the long run.

He wants to be on the dance floor without wearing his drink, is the thing. That’d be great, he’d really enjoy getting out there and taking some pressure off TJ and the Ryans because they are _busy_ out there.

Everything is buzzing in his veins, the adrenaline inside his body shaking him up and making him almost dizzy with it, and before long he’s locked inside the bodies, laughing and throwing his hands up into the bright lights dancing just above the level of the crowd and just basking.

Just. _Basking_.

It’s like the playoffs, only different. Whatever it is he’s riding high on it. It’s like seeing sunlight after a really nasty storm, the sort without any lighting or rain or anything to make it cool or worthwhile.

Everything feels light and sharp, it’s got colors he’s not used to seeing, swirling around him and making him giggle a little bit. Landy’s here now, somehow and from somewhere, calm and collected and barely breathing hard, while Matt’s hair is spiking and sticky with sweat. He smiles at him and leans forward into Landy’s arms with a laugh, and then back into a lady, letting himself get bounced around between them while he tips his head to the rafters and _laughs_. He can’t seem to stop, and he’s not even drunk. He’s nothing except giddy, giddy and _relieved_ , sweating up a storm and not even caring.

Even Varly ends up out there, and it’s clear he has no more idea how to move than the rest of them, goalie skills be damned, but that’s okay. They’ve got a break, they’re going home, and they’re going home _winners_. It’s such an experience, they’re catching each other’s eyes and winking, grinning, laughing.

The air breathes thick with perfume and cologne and _light_ , and none of them can dance but that’s okay because they can play like all bloody hell out there right now. And right now, that’s enough. It’s good, it’s brilliant. It’s better than it has been in so long, which makes even the temporary aspect of it into something wonderful.

Unpredictable.

The night feels like a minor miracle.

That’s why the loud club music sounds so _good_ to him, sounds so much like something he wants even though it’s more TJ’s music than his. There are hands on his hips, his chest, all over him as he laughs, spinning and trying and failing to move in any way besides that awkward white boy groove that is all they can ever manage.

That’s okay. It’s fun.

There’s EJ, and Milan. Shane and Radar and Jonesy and they’re all _awesome_ , he loves them and they’re awesome and Paul’s out there now and he can keep track of him only by following TJ’s movements. They’re laughing and dancing together, Paul moving his hips like he knows what to do with them in that unselfconscious way that looks natural.

It gives . . . it distracts him, gives him some sort of _idea_ bubbling in the back of his brain as he watches. Because for some reason he just . . . can’t look away.

Doesn’t want to, but also can’t.

Paul’s pretty awesome, and he has some good moves. And he’s ridiculous. Matt likes that.

Landy laughs at Matt, hands falling on his waist and spinning him so he can pay attention to the girl who snuck up behind him like a stilettoed ninja, who’s smiling a shy invitation. Only he doesn’t really want that, now he can’t watch Paul, and he wants to . . .

Mainly, he just _wants_.

The song gets louder and then fades away when he finally catches up, TJ holding still long enough that he can sneak up behind him, slide into his space and smile at Paul. Stas smiles at him, hair already starting to clump and darken with sweat. He slips into the space between TJ and Paul, squeezing in there and TJ lets him in, slaps his shoulder a little meanly and moves into the crowd like he can take Matt’s place with Landy in the rush.

“Hey.” Paul looks confused, that same little smile that’s part wary, the one he uses when he doesn’t understand or when there’s a camera uncomfortably near his face.

“Hi! Hi, Paul! Let’s dance!” He knows he sounds silly, sounds hyper and half stoned with energy and Paul smiles at him, lets Matt curl into his space and try to match his movements. Paul moves good, like maybe he had a girlfriend in college who taught him to be cool. There’s a reason he’s the one in charge of the Bang Bang Dance.

He likes how Paul moves, even if he can’t quite figure out how he does it. He can’t really find a rhythm and moves too herky jerky so that Paul laughs at him with a trace of fondness. Unlike TJ there’s almost nothing that’s dark or sarcastic hidden under his amusement, sincerity with no caveats. That makes it easier to relax into the song, into Paul, let something like rhythm start to make its way into his spine as he tries and fails to wriggle in the same way. The thing is Matt knows how to learn from his elders when they have something they can teach him.

It’s probably the casual acceptance of the club, or the rough adrenaline rush of winning, or most likely as simple as comfort that has him moving into Paul so easily. He wants to be closer, and closer, dancing in his space in a way TJ chose not to, or Paul wasn’t allowing.

Paul has a way with his hips. He has really _nice_ hips, strong and lean and he just moves them perfectly.

“You move good. Like. It’s good, I wanna dance like you.”

Matt’s punch drunk on adrenaline, beer heavy in an empty belly, so somehow it makes perfect sense to curl his fingers over Paul’s hips. He wants to just _touch_ them and learn from their proximity, figure out how Paul does it. Except it’s less than a second and he’s leaning into the heat and solidarity of him while they move.

Paul shudders like Fight or Flight. It’s over as quick as it started, Paul moving back a fraction without actually breaking his rhythm. Matt follows, because . . .

Matt follows.

He doesn’t want to think about why and maybe he needs a few more drinks so that he won’t but he doesn’t much want to leave Paul out here on the floor by himself. Or probably not by himself; Matt’s already fighting off a decent number of people just so he can keep his place close to Paul. He never really thought about making open ice checks on a dance floor, and Paul’s not a puck, but he ends up doing it anyway. And this is not something he wants to leave out here on the floor.

It’s seriously too bright and cheerful for the furrow in Paul’s brow, for the way he’s squirming around and the way he’s looking at Matt’s hands on his hips like he has no idea what they’re doing or how they got there.

All cards on the table, Matt’s not really sure how they got there this time around but he’s not gonna pretend that he doesn’t like them there because Hello, Paul’s Hips. Not only is he learning dance moves, but also Paul has really nice hips and actually all of him is pretty awesome, Matt’s not gonna lie. He likes touching, he sorta wants to touch more but maybe Paul would hit him if he went for more than just this, fingers pressing into his back and thumbs on the bone.

Matt grins and Paul has that look he gets when he has no clue what’s going on; polite incomprehension, and he’s stiff but not in a fun way under his hand. He can feel the play of it under his palms each time Paul shifts. It’s not exactly different, or strange. It’s exactly what he expected, and right for what he wants, too.

He kinda wants to touch him everywhere, actually.

“You’re excited for something,” Paul manages in a voice that sounds like neutrality. It takes all of Matt’s willpower to not shriek “We won!” into Paul’s ear at a volume that the club doesn’t really call for, so pulling him in by the hips and leaning up that negligible amount so that he can kiss him is actually an act of restraint.

It really does make sense, he’s prepared to swear it on everything he’s got when Paul stiffens and moves away, pulls a face that’s mostly bemusement.

It’s not even that big of a deal. Gabriel and Varly are dancing in that effortlessly intimate European style, side to chest and twisting together in a way that doesn’t require a common understanding to get their point across. They’re managing, and Paul and Matt actually speak the same language in theory, so there’s nothing at all stopping him from leaning in for another, slotting his lips against Paul’s and pressing for a better answer.

Toronto is mostly cool with guys-who-like-guys, and they should be more than okay with guys-who-like-Paul, because guys-who-like-Paul clearly have good taste. And it’s not like the team has an issue — Gabe and Varly have moved on to full on grinding, thigh between thighs, and Matt’s over here keeping a nice and chaste space between their junk, and basically all he wants is to just have Paul kiss him back and then get somewhere where lack of space between their junk isn’t cause for comment.

“Hey, so.” His skin is itchy with sweat and heat, and Paul’s not touching him but that’s okay since Matt’s got a death grip he has no intention of releasing at any point in the immediate future. He really wants to go, because the hotel is probably empty. “We won. We’re on fire right now. The hotel’s empty right now, right? And I’m pretty sure no one would care if we take off . . .”

Paul’s expression is mostly unreadable, nothing strong showing, and then he smiles just a little, shaking his head. “A hotel’s never empty.”

His face does not fall, because he doesn’t let it. “I . . .”

“But it’s empty enough, I think.” Paul shrugs, the image of No Big Deal, and it takes him precious seconds to recognize the disconnect between what he’s saying and what he _means_ , and at that point he starts hauling Paul out by the arm, no intention of letting go for God or Country even though Paul’s a traitor who played for Team USA. He sorta wants to be mad about that, but he was never called up so whatever. He might not have anything but Paul has silver and that’s probably worse.

“Lilesy,” Paul calls. “Hate to leave you alone, but . . .”

John Michael raises his head from where he was leaning against Burner, giving a lazy smile that Matt thinks means he’s not alone, not with Ryan back where he belongs.

John Michael’s not an inherently complicated guy, but there are still moments when Matt _wonders_.

“Hey.” Paul turns and looks at Matt, the sound of the bar following him out into the street before the door cuts it short again. There’s that gap where teeth should be, tucked mostly behind a smile. “Great game.”

Matt shakes his head. He’s not denying it, but it’s not what he wants. If that was what he wanted he would have stayed in the bar, let the guys buy him victory shots until he can’t stand straight. Paul’s seen him like that enough times, handed him water and aspirin and lectures sitting on the counter in the bathroom with his legs swinging while Matt made a deep and personal connection with the toilet and, on one of his less enviable moments, tile but it’s not what he wants right this minute.

Standing outside with Paul feels a lot like the beginning to what he wants.

“I mean it. Y’know, the whole team’s been lighting it up, but you really stepped it up and I’m . . .” Paul shrugs a little, settles back on his heels with his hands in his pockets.

He has a fine layer of scruff on his face, pale enough to be invisible at the moment, and he smells like body wash and sweat, and Matt kisses him because he doesn’t want to hear about his goal. He can hear that from anyone, hear about it the way he’s hearing 5 for 5, but he can only hear that little hitch in Paul’s breath when he kisses him. It makes sense in ways the words don’t.

This time Paul actually responds, and maybe he should be wondering why Paul even came out here when this is the first time he’s actually kissed back, but mainly he’s too absorbed in how awesome it feels. How Paul is just, like, firm against him, how nice it is to just keep touching his hips over and over again. His lips are chapped but that makes sense. Matt’s are, too.

His nose is buried in Paul’s neck and the cab is taking them back, Paul’s head tilted back just enough that Matt can mouth over his neck and jaw. Their cabbie is awesome. He’s minding his own business, and he knows the way back to the hotel so Paul doesn’t need to tell him even though he spent the whole ride over staring out the window like he was memorizing the route.

Matt kinda wants Paul to pay attention to him like that, and he’d be in his lap except the back of the cab is a little small. Screw it, though. It’s where he wants to be.

His head keeps hitting the ceiling once he’s settled across Paul’s lap, and it’s not comfortable by a long shot because, yeah. Small space for two not small dudes. But Paul makes these little sounds, licks into Matt’s mouth and lets Matt suck on his tongue, stroking together wet and perfect and not enough. His hands are on Matt’s hips and that’s great except Matt can’t move the way Paul does and also his shirt is in the way.

“Hey, hey, Jesus, Matt!” Paul swats his hands away from the hem of his shirt. “You have ADHD, I swear. Hold it until the hotel, there’s no . . .”

He cuts off once Matt gets his hands on his skin. “I have what, now?”

“ADHD, or y’know, some sort of focus problem.”

“I’ll show you how I can focus,” and he means it as a challenge except for how Paul scratches at his wrist and he forgets what focus means in favor of making a small sound and leaning down to kiss him again.

Downtown Toronto is pretty nice. The colors blur through the windows and he chases a little flash of red as it smears its way across Paul’s face, licking along the path and making Paul gasp, soft and breathy. Paul’s wearing his tie still, but it’s loose from Matt pulling on it. He wishes he could just rip it off and throw it out the window or something, stupid skinny ties.

It’s probably good that the cab stops when it does. Well, it’s good it stops when it does because it’s at their hotel but also it’s good because if it’d kept driving Matt would probably have had Paul halfway down his throat before they hit the city limits, and there’s only so much someone can politely ignore.

Paul probably pays the cabbie way more than he needs, but it’s all in the cause of keeping his mouth shut on what they started but can’t finish. Or at least can’t finish in the back of his cab; that would take more money than either of them carry to apologize properly.

Matt’s room is closest to the elevator, but Paul’s the sort of guy who actually remembers where he has his room key.

“They handed them out less than eight hours ago, how did you lose . . .”

“I’m a little _busy_ right now.”

Paul’s laugh rumbles down his throat and Matt catches it on his lips, nipping and sucking at his neck while Paul operates the door with no indication of any sort of difficulty. It’s pretty unfair — Matt’s brain is so scrambled just by being _near_ Paul that he can’t even remember where his keycard is, let alone how to work it.

“I guess you are,” Paul says mildly, opening the door. The only indication of impatience is when he all but tosses Matt into the room before following him in, shutting the door and replacing his key in his wallet, then tossing the wallet onto the ugly dresser.

Matt’s got his shirt halfway off, tugging at the buttons in impatience before he looks up and notices Paul’s just watching, hands in his pockets and weight back on his heels, a red mark slowly darkening up high on the side of his throat. “What?”

“You’re impatient,” Paul observes, sliding out of his suit jacket with a wiggle of his shoulders and starting on his tie.

The older man is warm against his front as he leans into him, fingers tangling in the thin, pale hair at the back of his neck. “Can you blame me?” Matt asks, taking the tie away from Paul and tossing it somewhere. “You look so damn good in a tie,” and that has Paul stopping, remembering, and he shakes his head slowly.

“Repeating the All Star game? Seriously?”

No, not seriously. Matt hadn’t really wanted until just now, but. Maybe since then. Some part of him noticed Paul’s hips even then, slim cut slacks and a skinny tie he knew was Giovanni even if Stas didn’t.

Not answering must mean guilt in the Stastny family. Paul pulls back and he looks . . . unsure. He looks like he doesn’t know anymore, and Matt has to haul him in for a kiss just to get that weird look off his face.

“Whatever; it’s not like that was forever ago.” Matt nips at his jaw, right at the spot below his ear and is rewarded with being able to feel Paul’s jaw dropping on a small, silent “Oh”.

Paul’s hands settle on his waist, fingers curling in, and mostly Matt wants his shirt off so he keeps kissing Stas, lips roving over his jaw as he works his own shirt open and off. Paul gets with the program enough to push it off his shoulders — finally, fucking _finally_ — and Matt might pop a few buttons off of Paul’s shirt trying to get it off.

“Goddammit.” He bites his collarbone and Paul laughs, wrong answer. “Only you wear an undershirt.”

“That’s not true.” Working it over his head makes his gel finally give up and allow his hair to spring upwards in all its spiky glory. “So does Milan.”

Matt pulls back to eye him, and Paul shrugs. “Bad example, sorry.”

“Because you are not a 35 year old man.”

“Yet.”

“At all.” Paul’s skin is hot and a little slick under his hands, working them up from the side of his hips over the edges of his obliques.

He can feel Paul settle a little bit, weight back on his heels and letting Matt’s thumbs slide along the cut of his muscle as he watches him. He looks too intense and Matt just wants him to stop, leaning in to kiss him as he works his hands over his chest. Stas settles in so that he can slide against his thigh, rubbing off on him and it’s great, so great, so totally awesome except for how it’s not anywhere near enough. There're too many clothes in the way, he wants to feel Paul against himself instead of just the inside of his boxers.

Paul kisses back, nips lightly at his lips and sorta grins against them as Matt rocks against him, palms flattening against his back and rubbing at his spine. He pulls away and Matt chases him shamelessly, trying to get his lips back.

“That is, y’know, a pretty nice belt buckle,” he murmurs, and Matt has a few seconds of fuzzy incomprehension before Paul tugs it open, leather whispering through his hands as he works it out.

“You stared at my crotch for like, a solid minute.” His voice sounds like he’s complaining; he’s not. Paul’s eyes on him were sorta awesome. Most of everything about Paul is awesome, except his pants. Those need to go.

“I had an excuse, eh?” He’s grinning at Matt’s attempts to get his pants open. He pushes his hands away at the last moment and tackling the belt on his own.

So, Matt has never done this before and he will probably be horrible at it, but he wouldn't be a hockey player if he went into something expecting failure. The carpet feels scratchy against his knees and Paul's looking down at him.

He seems a little worried. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." Matt feels a little sulky but Paul's not gonna be worried once he gets this going. He mouths at the line of hair leading into Stas' boxers, smiles at the way his belly tightens under his lips even though he doesn't say a word.

Paul's fingers thread into his hair as though he's thinking Matt is going to stop. Which he won't, fuck no. He watches Paul as he slips down, tugging his boxers down and licks his lips, tries to get his pulse under control as he leans forward, and there’s a dick at eye level.

It’s Paul’s dick, which makes it better than other dicks, but it’s also still . . . dick. He can totally do this, though. He _can_ , because Paul is hot and also because he’s _Paul_.

He’s not trying to tease when he kitten licks over the small bead of precome gathering at the tip. He just needs to know, needs to try it and see and he’s not gonna be cooking with it any time soon but it’s not bad. Paul’s hips twitch, trying to follow him, and he can see the tremble in this thighs from where he’s trying to hold himself back, be patient, be a gentleman.

When he stretches his lips over the head Paul makes a sound deep in the back of his throat, raw and raspy and _broken_ , fingers combing out Matt’s curls and playing with them so he takes in more, hollowing his cheeks to suck.

Like most of life it’s a learning experience but he’s learning not to be bad at it. The carpet sorta burns against his knees and it’s irritating but Paul just keeps making these choked off _noises_ that dammit, he loves. He takes it in and feels the hot, heavy build of arousal making his lower belly cramp because it’s _Paul_. He’s thick in his mouth, salty bitter and hot as Matt sweeps his tongue across his dick and pulls him in deeper. Paul mutters something unintelligible, gripping tight to the small curls behind Matt’s ears and then groans, a full body sound that Matt can feel in his own.

He’s feeling Paul fall apart because of him, and he can see where this might get addictive.

Addictive and also sorta painful.

“Ow, ow, okay,” he mumbles. They just finished a game, if he keeps this up on cheap hotel carpet his knees are gonna be wrecked for longer than their weekend.

“How romantic.” Paul’s delivery would be perfectly dry except for how his voice has an edge like he’s been holding back a near continuous scream, his lower lip bitten red and full.

“Shut up.” He licks Paul once, feels his thighs shudder with it and then proceeds to push him back towards the bed. Paul stumbles back onto the bed and Matt follows him, crawling up his body and straddling his hips. “I want . . .”

Paul’s watching him, his eyes nearly entirely black and his lip back between what teeth he has left, turning white under the pressure. Paul’s not exactly _beautiful_ , not really. But.

Well, he kinda is, though. He’s flushed hot and pink, feverish across his cheekbones with sweat gathering in his throat, reflecting when he swallows. He has Matt zoning out for a split second before he leans up and kisses him once, short and to the point.

Matt moves into it, relaxing his body against Paul’s. He’s not really petite, but neither is Paul and he can take him resting most of his weight onto him while they kiss, while he grinds against him. His dick fits into the sweat slick skin of Paul’s hip and he groans, hips jerking and blushing.

“It’s good.” Paul wiggles, face flushed red and hips rolling against Matt’s, meeting him in a movement that gets better once sweat and precome greases their slide. He’s trying to look in control, the way he always does, but the flutter of his eyelashes and the way he can’t seem to focus his eyes tells a different story.

Matt bites along his cheekbone, because he can.

A low groan is his reward — that and Paul moving harder, even more urgently against him. He’d like more, more of this but also just _more_ , only they have all night and stopping would be the worst thing ever.

Paul’s hand settles low on his back, pulling him in more, pressure and a tighter angle and there is no way he’s gonna come before Paul when he’s not the one who was getting a blowjob earlier. That’s his last thought before Paul _finally_ lets go, spilling wet and sloppy into the sharp lines of Matt’s hips and belly.

“Oh my _God_ ,” he breathes, eyes rolling back for a moment.

Matt gasps against Paul’s collarbone for a few seconds before Paul comes back to himself enough for his hand to snake between them, slick with come, to wrap around Matt and work him. It’s all dripping slide and rough palm until he can’t take it anymore and he comes across Paul’s fingers, nervous energy releasing itself finally, leaving his skin loose and easy to live in again.

He’s not really the ‘orgasm blackout’ sort of guy, but apparently this situation is designed to test him a bit. It takes almost too long to come down, shift off from where he was curled around Paul and try and disentangle their bodies before moving becomes painful and difficult. Paul’s eyes are closed, he’s breathing hard enough that his chest is shuddering and his face is glistening with sweat, lips red and bitten raw.

“Did I kill you?” He pokes his side, and Paul’s eyes crack open slowly, expression less than amused.

“Never heard of relaxing before?”

Matt rolls to his feet, shrugs. “Must be an old dude thing.”

The pillow smacks into his ass as he scrambles into the bathroom, giggling with the residue of giddy energy. He takes his time cleaning himself up, and when he comes out Paul’s curled under the covers, flipping through the channels until he settles on one of Spike TV’s thrice monthly Star Wars marathons.

“I wish we had Oreos,” Matt laments, dropping onto the bed next to him, and Paul looks sideways at him before shaking his head and sighing.

“Y’know, it’s like you never plan anything. They’re in my bag.”

Matt’s halfway to the closet before it catches in his head and he stops short, looking over his shoulder. “ _Plan_?”

Paul shrugs and a bright, shiny smile creeps across his face. “You’re not the only one excited to win this, y’know?”

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this back in October, when the Avalanche were winning. Remember that? Yeaaaah, good times. Well, two months later I actually finished it. Thanks to cholera for wrangling in my run on sentences and kicking my ass into actually finishing.
> 
> I've now created the Nikita Filatov and the Paul Stastny tag. You're welcome.


End file.
